


Soldier No More

by RivRe



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst, CA:TWS spoilers, Gen, PTSD, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-14
Updated: 2014-04-14
Packaged: 2018-01-19 08:27:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,962
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1462573
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RivRe/pseuds/RivRe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It needs constant maintenance. But the soldier is preoccupied.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Soldier No More

**Author's Note:**

> I have a lot of Bucky feels. I started working on this fic a couple of days after seeing the movie, as part of my attempt to Even.  
> There's definitely a decent amount of ptsd, and Bucky in all of his screwed-upness. But that goes without saying. Anyway, there's angst. You've been warned.  
> I really enjoyed writing this one, so I hope you enjoy reading it as well!

It needed constant maintenance. Sitting in the derelict building, clenching and unclenching his fist, he wondered what now. The man in the museum looked exactly like him. Why couldn’t he remember?

 _A stump where his arm had been, a knife sliding into it_. He shot forward, curling up in a ball as the agony tore through his head and the pain rode down his spinal cord, spreading to every inch of him. He screamed, and through the haze in his brain he heard a rat scuttle. His whole body shook.

The pain faded finally, and he rose back up into a sitting position, too exhausted to stand on his shaky legs. They had been giving him pills for the episodes, but only a few at a time, only when he was on missions. They told him it was wasteful to use them too often, and if he did they would become less and less effective. He only had a few left, and he knew he had to save them for emergencies.

He glanced through the shattered window at the setting sun. He usually blacked out a few times during the episodes, and he was never quite sure how long they lasted. He thought this one might have been about fifteen minutes.

Finally, he pulled himself up and grabbed his hoodie from the floor, zipping it all the way up. He never got very cold these days, but he didn’t want to attract attention.

Food. That was what his focus was now. He needed to get food and water. And then he needed to find someone who could take care of his arm. The Captain— _Steve_ , he reminded himself—had pushed it to its limits, and with the abandoned screwdriver he found in the building he was currently sheltering in, he had done some repairs, made it usable. But that wouldn’t last long.

He added oil to his mental list. Maybe that would help.

He kicked up dust as he trudged down the hallway. The building he had found was abandoned a long time ago, and the lower floors were occupied by a group of hobos whose smell permeated the walls and filled most of the building. They couldn’t go far, though. The entire third floor had collapsed, the stairs along with it. But he’d made it up anyway, and found a spot on the fifth floor that didn’t stink too terribly and hadn’t been overrun with rat droppings. Most of the walls had collapsed as well, but he found a modicum of privacy, as well.

He jumped down through the hollow stairwell, kicking up another cloud of dust. When he headed down to the first floor, the hobos gave him a wide berth, which was fine with him. He kind of wished he still had his mask, if only to block out some of the smell.

The building wasn’t in a nice part of town, or even a half-decent part. It was all homeless people and broken buildings and nobody-walking-out-after-dark. But he was.

“Hey, kid.”

He kept walking.

“I said ‘hey.’” A hand grabbed his flesh shoulder, and he let it turn him around. A knife flashed in front of his face, and he raised an eyebrow at the man in front of him. He counted the ways he could kill him. But he shouldn’t do that, should he? It would be like squashing a spider, but what would that other man, the one who laughed and smiled and said he was James Buchanan Barnes, do? He didn’t think that that other man would kill him.

“Give me your wallet, kid.” The man looked awful, with sunken red eyes and hollow cheeks. His hands shook, and he stunk of addiction. “I said give me your wallet.”

He made as though to cut him, and he grabbed the addict’s wrist and flipped him over onto his back, prying the knife from his fingers. The blade was as dirty and grimy as the rest of him, and, with perfect precision, he tossed it through the sewer grates thirty feet away. He didn’t want to touch the addict anymore. Part of him screamed to just break his neck, but James Buchanan Barnes wouldn’t do that.

He found four dollars in the addict’s pocket, and left him groaning on the ground. James Buchanan Barnes probably wouldn’t do that either, but he—the Winter Soldier—didn’t have a choice.

A few blocks away, he found a gas station with a little store attached, and, tentatively, went in. The woman at the counter glanced lazily up at him, then returned to her game of cards. Some sort of classical music was playing through the speakers.

He trudged up the first aisle and grabbed a bag of pretzels. He wondered if James Buchanan Barnes liked pretzels. He wondered if he would. In the fridge at the back, he found a bottle of water, and down the next aisle he found different oils and lubricants. There were all different types, like for bikes and chains and cars. He grabbed the last kind.

As he was making his way back to the counter, the song changed. “Hello darkness, my old friend, I’ve come…” He stopped.

  _The flesh gave way so easily to his knife_. He was back on the ground, curled up and biting back a scream. The song thrummed in his head, and he remembered his eighth kill, in January 1966. His target was in the drawing room of his mansion, reading a book and listening to a record. This song played as he crept through the hall on silent feet.

“…dreams I walked alone, narrow streets of cobble…”

He blacked out.

“…hearing without listening…”

He remembered creeping up behind him, and sliding the knife right between his ribs. The man made one strangled little noise, but then the tip of the blade pierced his heart and it stopped and he was dead.

“…whispered in the sound of silence.”

The last notes faded, and he shook while the last few tremors wracked his body.

When he lifted his head, the girl was standing above him, chewing a piece of gum and watching him. The next song had begun. “You a junkie or something?”

He shook his head. “Just sick.” He heaved himself to his feet, and scooped up the scattered items.

“Am I s’posed to call 911 or something? I mean, I was gonna call for a cop, cuz I thought you were a junkie, but do you need an ambulance?”

“I’m fine.” He glanced at her, and another wave of dizziness hit him when he remembered another girl, just as tough as this one, with shoulder-length brown hair and a glare that could kill. The mental image he had placed her next to Capta—Steve. Steve. What had her name been? Pearl…Pat…Penny…Peggy? Yes, Peggy.

“M’name’s Eleanor.” She went back around the counter, and took a seat again, her long auburn ponytail swinging behind her. “Everyone just calls me Ellie. If you call me Eleanor I’m going to have to shoot you in the arm.”

He would like to see her try.

A beat passed, and he realized that she was expecting him to introduce himself. He wondered what would happen if he didn’t, but then she prompted him.

Steve had called him “Bucky,” hadn’t he? When they were in the helicarrier, he had called him Bucky, short for James Buchanan Barnes. He hated his middle name. That thought came to him unbidden and out of nowhere, his dislike for the name, at total odds with how he felt about his nickname.

“James,” he finally said.

She rang up his three items. “Eight bucks.”

He’d been busy trying to uncrumple his bills, but at that he stopped. “I have four.” Since when had things gotten so expensive? Another wave of nausea hit him, and a memory of being no more than twelve, getting a chocolate bar for half a dollar in a candy shop. A scrawny blonde boy stood beside him, coughing weakly. Was that Steve? The sickly boy looked nothing like the tall, muscular man he’d faced two weeks before, but something in his gut told him it was the same person.

Eleanor rolled her eyes. “Check the labels next time.” She put just the pretzels and the water bottle in a plastic bag, leaving the oil on the counter beside her. “Three dollars, Jim.” He dropped the money on the counter and took the bag. He could argue, or just grab the oil, but he didn’t think James Buchanan Barnes would do that. He forced himself to take a step away.

“You know what? I’ll give it to you on the house.” She pushed the bottle of oil in his direction, and he reached for it slowly, carefully, but she didn’t let go right away, and he didn’t take it by force. “It’s a strange combination.” He gave the bottle a gently tug, but she didn’t yield. “Snacks, water, and motor oil. You’re like a truck driver, just with no money and no truck.” He stayed quiet. “What’s your deal?”

He wanted to hit her so hard she flew through the wall. Every instinct in him told him to hit her, and he struggled with it. James Buchanan Barnes wouldn’t do that. He gritted his teeth and took a step back, and then he fled, dropping his plastic bag and his remaining dollar on the ground, his only focus putting distance between himself and her. She called out, but he ignored her. The other man, the one he used to be, wouldn’t want him to hurt her.

 

Three days and five episodes later, he went back to the gas station. The girl wasn’t there this time. He didn’t know exactly what he was here for, especially without any money, but he paced up and down the aisle anyway.

“You Jim?” The man behind the counter had stood up, and his shoulders were tense. He gave him a curt nod and approached slowly, wary of the man’s next moves. “This yours?” He held out the plastic bag. A beat passed before he grabbed it, lightning quick. “You stay away from Ellie, you hear? I don’t want you coming back around here.”

The man was trying to look menacing, but the soldier was just imagining the ways he could kill him. He walked out of the store.

A block away, he stopped and pulled out the water bottle, downing it in one long gulp. He tossed it on the ground and looked back in the bag. There was a second water bottle, as well as two bags of chips, the oil, and his crumpled four dollars. This would last him a month if he stretched it.

Back in his “room,” he put on a bit of oil, lubricating the joints. His arm instantly felt better, and he massaged the spot where his shoulder met the metal, allowing himself to relax a bit. It didn’t last long before the pain was back, and he was getting tied down and drugged, needles pinching his arms and shoulders and neck, and his memories were getting jumbled and reorganized, like someone was going through a filing cabinet. He screamed. And screamed some more.

When he woke up, it was light outside and he’d knocked over his can of oil. He scooped up what he could, and tightened the lid of the bottle. There was a hook in middle of the ceiling, presumably from old lightbulbs. Hoping the rats wouldn’t be able to reach it up there, he hung the bag on the hook and headed out for a walk.

He still needed a mechanic. And some clean clothes. He didn’t want to start to smell like the hobos living downstairs.

“So you’re homeless.”

He almost killed her right then and there. But, holding Ellie two feet off the ground by her neck, he stopped himself just short of crushing her throat. Cataloging her as a non-threat, he dropped her, and she staggered, barely keeping her feet beneath her.

“Wow, Jim.” She coughed and rubbed her sore throat. “You’re stronger than you look.” She glanced down at his gloved left hand, and he shoved it into a pocket. If you’re paying attention, it’s hard not to feel the difference between flesh and metal.

“Don’t follow me.” He turned his back on her, and started walking.

“Hey, I was just heading this way.” She trotted to catch up to him. Ellie’s head barely reached his shoulder and she had to jog to keep pace with him. “You wouldn’t leave a defenseless girl all alone in the middle of the slums, would you?”

“Yes.” He lengthened his stride, but she was persistent.

“You don’t strike me as the homeless type. You know, crazy, drugged up, volatile.”

That actually described him perfectly.

“So what’s your deal?”

He ignored her.

“I’ll tell you mine if you tell me yours.”

He wasn’t sure if she was flirting or teasing or a spy, nor did he care. The urge to fling her into a streetlamp had mostly faded, but he still didn’t trust himself. Or her.

“Come on, Jim.” She made to poke him, but he grabbed her wrist, stopping himself from crushing it. He released her again with a shove, but she must have been stupid because she didn’t try to run. “Did my brother scare you that bad?” He still didn’t speak, and she made a noise of disgust. “Fine, I can ignore you just as well.” She rolled her eyes at him, and finally, _finally_ , fell silent. It didn’t last more than two minutes before she sped up and rounded on him, hands on her hips. “Seriously. What’s your story?”

When he tried to move around her, she put a hand on his chest, which he plucked off. He started walking again, and she stayed in front of him, walking backwards.

“I mean, you haven’t even tried to hit on me yet. Or take advantage of me, or whatever. Are you gay? Is that it?”

Finally, he reacted, lifting an eyebrow. “I have no interest in twelve-year-olds.”

She scoffed. “I’m nineteen. How old are _you_?”

About ninety-five. “Mid-twenties.”

“Ah, finally getting some answers out of you. You’re as frosty as winter time. Maybe I’ll call you ‘Jim Winter.’” She smiled playfully, but he fell silent again. It was definitely a step up from Winter Soldier.

They were standing in the properly residential part of DC, where the houses stood straight and the dogs were collared and didn’t have fleas. They’d barely been walking for fifteen minutes, and it looked like they were in an entirely different world.

Pulling his hood farther over his head, he walked. Ellie followed him, and her presence was getting increasingly annoying. He needed to _think_.

Mechanic. Clean clothes. More oil, maybe. Why was she still following him?

“What exactly are you planning on doing here? Do you even know where you’re going? Do you even know where you want to go?”

He growled in response, out of patience. But he didn’t have a chance to say anything.

“Hey! What the hell, man?” Heading towards them was the man from the store, whom Ellie had said was her brother. He stopped just in front of them. “I told you to stay away from her.”

“Frank, it’s fine.” She put a hand on his shoulder, but he shook his head.

Suddenly, he was itching for a fight. And this man was practically begging for it. So when Frank shoved him, he shoved back hard. The blow lifted Frank into the air and sent him flying back ten feet, sliding another fifteen. But he wasn’t done, and he started to advance on the fallen man.

Something clinked against his arm, and he turned to see Ellie, pointing a gun at him and staring in horror at the bullet-hole in his sweater. When he changed his destination, she shot at him point-blank in the chest. He blocked it, tearing another hole in the hoodie. She shot again and again, but he blocked or dodged each one. He counted, and there was one left when he stood in front of her. He placed his metal hand over the muzzle, and tore it out of her hands before she could fire, tossing it forty or fifty feet.

Ellie trembled, but she held his gaze. James Buchanan Barnes would never have done anything like that, it was the wrong thing to do. “I…I’m sorry.” That’s what James Buchanan Barnes would say. James Buchanan Barnes would be truly sorry. But was he? No. No, the soldier did not regret. Soldiers have no room for regret.

She stared at him some more. And then took a step back, and then another one. Then she spun on her heel and ran to her brother’s side, kneeling beside him. Was Frank dead? He didn’t know. He wasn’t sure if that was a heavy enough blow to hurt a normal person.

He turned and ran the other way, heading farther into town. He really needed clothes. And, if she called the police, a new place to stay.

The police. She was going to call the police, and they would find him again, and lock him up and drug him and do more experiments and stick him with needles and break his arm so he could never get away again and torture him and beat him and wipe his memories and experiment some more and and and

He stopped short in the middle of an intersection. A car honked and swerved around him, but he ignored it. He was breathing hard, and his heart thrummed in his ears. He fumbled at his belt, and pulled out the little container of pills. He only had three left. He shook one onto his flesh hand and popped it into his mouth, trying to steady his breathing. He heard sirens, or at least he thought he did. Was he imagining them? Was he going to have another episode before the pill could work its way through his blood stream and into his brain?

Time slowed. Another car honked and he stared at it as it approached, honking wildly. But he didn’t move out of the way, and when the car didn’t swerve, he slammed his hand down onto the hood, denting it and keeping it in place. The jolt it sent up into his shoulder brought him back into focus, and he ran again, pounding the pavement hard.

There. A clothing store. It was small, and the selection was minimal, and he didn’t have any money. Finding a zip hoodie, he wondered how James Buchanan Barnes would feel about stealing. He took the hoodie and left, ignoring the shop owner calling after him. And then he started running again, until he saw another clothing store, where he took a pair of denim jeans. He glanced at the gloves before leaving, eyeing a pair of supple leather ones, but his beat-up pair would do for now. When he left, he set off an alarm.

He hoped James Buchanan Barnes would be proud of him.

 

The police were there already when he returned to his building, walking up and down the block. Ellie hadn’t seen which one he had come from. The officers were shining lights at everyone that passed, and he tried to shuffle by, maybe get to the rear of the building where he could scale a wall.

A flashlight blinded him, but he turned his head away.

A gun clicked. “Freeze!”

He didn’t. Bullets flying passed his head, he ducked into the building and climbed up to his room, grabbing the bag off its hook. He could hear the police trying to figure out how to get up, and he jumped through the hole left by the cracked window. He landed behind the police, and they spun to get him, but he was already out of sight before they made it to their cars.

He could have killed them all. Had he done the right thing by letting them live? James Buchanan Barnes would have. That made it right enough.

He picked another building a few blocks away, another one with a collapsed staircase. He changed into his stolen clothes, drank a sip of water, and ate two pretzels. He was glad he didn’t have to eat much, and settled into a corner of the room, tucking his knees up against him to sleep.

 

There was someone in the room. He could feel it before he even opened his eyes, and his heart raced. Had they found him? Were they going to take him away again for more tests? His heart sped up, but he made sure his breathing stayed steady, so as not to alert them.

“Good morning.” It was a woman who spoke, and she didn’t sound particularly threatening. But she sounded kind of familiar, and he wasn’t sure from where.

He sprang to his feet, but she didn’t flinch, or move to attack. She just stood in the middle of the room, rooting through the plastic bag with his food and old clothing. She was dressed casually and had curled her hair, but he recognized her all the same.

“What are you doing here?” He took a step towards her, trying to be threatening, but The Black Widow was not convinced.

“Steve’s been looking for you.” She dropped the bag on the dropping-covered floor and put her hands on her hips. “He can help you.”

He shook his head. “I don’t know him. I don’t remember him.”

“We can help you.” Her face was soft. “Bucky.”

“My name’s not Bucky.”

She took two big steps and was standing right in front of him, and he stiffened. “It was. Sometimes you forget thing, you get so caught up in the lies and what’s happening now that you don’t know what happened before. And then when you realize that you need to get out, it’s too late. You don’t know who you are, let alone who anyone else is. And it’s hard. But when you find someone you can trust, it gets just a little bit easier. Steve is good at being that someone.”

 _A short brunette was standing close to him like this. The room was crowded, and someone bumped into her, and she fell against him, smiling. There was a stage, and a man with a hovering car._ He screamed, and was on the ground again, shuddering. Arms held him tightly as he spasmed, and he shoved them away, rocking back and forth and screaming.

When he came to, The Black Widow was sitting a few feet away from him, drinking his water and rubbing gingerly at a black eye. “You hit hard, you know that?”

“How long was I…?” He didn’t know how to finish.

“A few hours.” She tossed him the water bottle, and he caught it with his metal arm. It made a little clicking noise as it moved. “Sounds like you need a mechanic.” He stared at her. “I know a guy.” She stood up and offered him a hand, but he stood on his own. “He was Bucky’s best friend. And Bucky is inside you somewhere, at least a little bit. He knew Bucky, and he knows you.”

“I…I don’t know who I am.” He looked so lost, so confused. His eyes widened, and they looked a little less dead. “How can he know me if I don’t even know myself?”

The Black Widow tugged her hood up and started for the stairwell. “Because he’s like that with everyone.” She smiled softly. “Because he’s Steve Rogers.”

When she jumped down to the next floor, she didn’t check to see if he was following. He was.

**Author's Note:**

> (Eleanor is named after Eleanor Roosevelt. I really wanted to stick that in there, and have Bucky make some snarky comment about remembering her/seeing her/having a lot of respect for her back in the day, but alas it did not fit in. But I still felt compelled to share.)
> 
> Thanks for reading!


End file.
